


Thorns

by HeahmundAndIvar (hanniwrites)



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, Blood, Blood Kink, Drabble, Dubious Consent, Hate Sex, Knifeplay, M/M, One Shot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 16:50:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16601834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanniwrites/pseuds/HeahmundAndIvar
Summary: This time, Heahmund doesn't get himself cut by a thorn bush because of desires of the flesh...





	Thorns

**Author's Note:**

> ...or that one time a tumblr anon asked me for 2k of Heavar sex and it turned out to be sex so angry you forget why you're having it in the first place.

The cold weather outside held nothing against the damp atmosphere of their bedchambers. Small huffs of warm breaths disappeared into the air through a small cloud of white. Neither of them paid attention to it, considering such details nothing but trivial compared to everything else that was going on.

Heahmund sighed, his throat vibrating against the cold steel of Ivar’s blade. Half of him was filled with fear, the other half was brewing with arousal, odd sensations that might just come hand in hand. He couldn’t tell for certain, or at least not in this moment. 

While Skadhi’s rage howled beyond the walls of their home, they felt not a single grain of the ice cold weather reaching their bare skins. There was the heat of the moment to make them forget about all else and everyone else. For the bishop, perhaps this even meant forgetting about his God for a little while so that he could let himself be engulfed in these (forbidden) desires, these sins. 

The steel of Ivar’s knife was the only hint of ice Heahmund could feel against his skin, but even there his throat felt so hot he barely felt it when the sharp edge drew a single drop of blood from his skin the moment he leaned into the blade a bit too close. The drop trickled down his skin until it came to a halt near his collarbone, drawing a red line on the bishop’s otherwise pale skin. 

His eyes met with Ivar’s. Ivar who grinned at the priest with something extra lingering in his eyes once he drew blood from the other. Those bright blue hues, Heahmund found them as mesmerising as they could be terrifying. It was odd. It was discomforting at times, but not now. Certainly not now. 

One hand occupied with the blade, Ivar used his other hand to guide Heahmund. He had placed it on the bishop’s hip, where he could allow himself to dig his fingers into the male’s skin should he find the desire to do so. Moments ago, it would earn Ivar more pleasure, for Heahmund would flinch at every pinch. But now the bishop had grown used to the sharp sensation on his side, and he barely still made a move on Ivar’s command. Surely Ivar was most in control keeping a blade to Heahmund’s throat, but would the bishop truly be himself if he weren’t so stubborn about giving away all of his control?

It was give and take between the two of them. Perhaps, it would always be. Neither of them was one willng to submit to the other, both of them being too stubborn to leave the control in the hands of another. Both of them were born leaders and born fighters. Two warriors, so opposing and yet so alike. Two different sides to the same coin now striped to their most basic selves, their most natural shape, and now they find themselves in the other. Stripped from all their differences, they find that they are still really quite the same, in the end.

They hardly made a sound, other than exhaling their sighs every now and then. They had never been men of many words, not even among their own people. Heahmund, as much as Ivar, only ever said that which was necessary. But here, one would consider more to be necessary than the other. Compared to each other, Heahmund knows silence better than Ivar, but in this moment again they are the same. Neither male offered the other the pleasure of hearing how they were experiencing this moment which once was an oddity but now something rather common.

It’s not the first time they share in such intimacies, nor did it look like it would be their last (unless Ivar chose to put proper, violent use to that knife).

Sweat pearled on the bishop’s scalp as he rode his pagan counterpart, hands resting on Ivar’s shoulders. He felt warm under Heahmund’s touch, and firm. While many of his folk were sturdy warriors, only very few could say they had shoulders and arms like the one they had chosen to follow. Twenty-one years have marked Ivar’s presence upon this world, and for most of them, his hands have needed to take him there where his feet failed to bring him. 

But the bishop only cared so little about the looks of Ivar’s legs. In fact, he wasn’t certain yet if he cared about him at all, despite sharing this moment of intimacy with him. Both of them knew that, once it was over and done with, they would never mention it again. 

Ivar twisted the knife against the priest’s skin, letting a flicker of the candle light dancing in the reflection of the blade while Heahmund moved his head away from the dagged with a gentle hiss. Blood had been drawn from him before, and he wished not for more to be spilled. He remains a warrior as much as he is a bishop, and every drop of blood spilled for reasons other than his God in situations other than battle was one drop too many according to him.

But Ivar had to disagree. Ivar always had to disagree with the Christian, even when there was much for them they could agree on. 

Ivar simply wished to see more blood. Ivar wished to find more excitement and thrill.

“Come on now, Bishop Heahmund,” Ivar teased, a wicked grin lingering on his features. “Don’t act as if you are afraid of a knife now,” he added on. Ivar turned the knife so that he could trail its pointy end over the bishop’s throat, but only enough to make it tickle. He did not yet have the intention to draw clear blood. For now, he could do with the pleasure of threatening Heahmund to draw more blood. 

“The knife I do not fear, but my blood is not meant to be spilled for the sinful desires of a pagan, Ivar the Boneless.”

A deep chuckle rumbled in the Viking’s throat. It matched well with the flicker of mischief which danced in Ivar’s eyes. 

“So sinful for a priest like yourself, Christian.”

Ivar had a point, but Heahmund only offered him a sly grin in return. They would not talk about this -- not now, not ever. Instead, the Bishop tightened his hold on the other’s shoulders before he ground against Ivar’s lap with a little more roughness than before, drawing the Northman’s lips apart from each other. Heahmund found a hint of surprise in Ivar’s eyes right before he went back to that amused little grin he could display during battle, when he witnesses the slaughtering of the enemy’s forces. 

With Heahmund’s true intentions unknown, Ivar decided that it could do no harm to fill in the answer for himself, even if it would turn out to be something different than that which the bishop had in mind when he had decided to go down on the Viking with slightly more dedication than before. 

For Ivar, it signaled an invite to draw more blood. Heahmund was taking initiative of his own, acting from within his stubborn heart, and Ivar felt like a little punishment -- a little putting his prisoner back in place -- would not hurt; or at least not for himself.

The knife travelled down Heahmund’s throat, to his collarbones where it came to a halt for now. Ivar knew he could bury it’s point into the bishop’s skin there, and he would barely feel it. Slight pressure on the knife, and a red pearl of blood sprouted from the priest’s skin before it drew a thin red line over his chest with a tickling sensation which was no oddity to Heahmund. He knew what the heathen had done without needing to look down first and scrunched his nose. So this was the game Ivar the Boneless desired to play now...

For each undesired roll of Heahmund’s hips, for each undesired twitch of Ivar’s prick upon the sight of more blood contrasting with the priest’s pale skin, the Northman would draw more crimson from his canvas. And Heahmund had grown far past caring about the loss of his blood to the sinful cravings of this heathen, because he had sworn he would get his revenge one day or another, far beyond the lost memory of this very morning, this cold winter day. 

Ivar exhaled a gentle chuckle each time he could draw fresh blood from Bishop Heahmund. Every drop that would rain down upon his chest sent a shiver of extreme pleasure down his spine all the way down to his prick and further down into the ill-shaped nerves of his legs and his toes. 

Ivar had never thought for himself to possess the skill of painting, but carving was something that he had mastered. Of course he was fine with carving, having had Floki for a mentor. Yet the cuts drawn upon Heahmund’s skin held no pattern, let alone a meaning other than that of a search for pleasure and satisfaction. 

For Heahmund they meant nothing at all, other than a lasting remember of the curse that rests upon Ivar the Boneless; a reminder of the demon that must live within this wretched pagan’s black and rotten heart. 

Once they had thought this day would be easily forgotten, but now the bishop was not so certain anymore. A miracle had yet to be performed, where God would strip one from sins as grave as these. 

The bishop though of his pennance when he had last succumbed to the desires of the flesh, and how the markings of thorns and branches now had made way for the desires of his flesh bleeding for a pagan. 

Ivar may have failed to please the priest, but he had for once not failed to satisfy himself. For once, for perhaps the first time, it felt genuine when the throb of his prick resonated hard enough for it to reach Ivar’s throat when he finally drew the bloodied knife from the Bishop’s skin to bring it to his mouth where he did not hesitate one bit to lick clean the entire blade to taste the Christian’s crimson blood on his very own tongue. 

And how sweet it tasted, to have Heahmund taking over his mouth through the metallic taste of his blood. How ecstatic it made Ivar feel he couldn’t help but arch his back with a lick of his lips. 

And all Heahmund could do was witness how the pagan revelled in his sick desires and how the taste and smell of Christian blood made him topple over the edge even the priest had to swallow a gasp of surprise when he could sense the swell of Ivar’s presence within him burst with spoiled and rotten excitement, sending a cold shiver of dread all the way up the priest’s spine until it rose the hairs on the nape of his neck.

Alas, Ivar was the only one revelling in this moment. The bishop had not once felt the pleasures and the desires of his flesh reach his gut. Much rather he had only been angry with Ivar the Boneless and had by now long forgotten how one thing had been able to lead to another, nor does he doubt he shall ever remember again. In fact, Heahmund was already praying for the memory to be taken from him by the end of this day or the next the very moment he forced himself free from the heathen’s grasp. 

Days passed, neither spoke of it, and as Heahmund did not offer Ivar the pleasure of a glance, Ivar would take every occasion of their gazes crossing to remind the priest of the carvings upon his bruised flesh hidden underneath wool and leather and the cold of winter.

Soiled by spoiled desires, the Bishop can but wait for the mercy of God to be granted to him before the sins of the pagans would strip him of his most initial purpose in life.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Tumblr: heahmundandivar


End file.
